


Been There, Done That, Messed Around

by fiendlikequeen



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, a thousand apologies to the real dudes, albeit the dress makes an extremely brief appearance on james fitzjames, not one but TWO jameses in dresses, to make up for it have historically-compliant james clark ross in a dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21854875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendlikequeen/pseuds/fiendlikequeen
Summary: On one of the long, arctic nights, Francis tells James a story involving a different carnivale, a different dress, and a different man named James.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 30
Kudos: 143





	Been There, Done That, Messed Around

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent smut. James Fitzjames is hot. James Clark Ross is hot. Francis has banged 'em both. Baller.
> 
> Title from La Roux's "Bulletproof," since it came on the radio and I had to have a long moment as I pondered its applicability to James Fitzjames. Still not happy about that particular philosophical journey.

“Tell me again,” says James, his low voice at its most intoxicating purr, “about James Clark Ross and Antarctica.”

Francis and James are tucked away in Francis’s bunk, in one of the moments of private pleasure they take such pains to enjoy. Francis is warm; a rarity, here. He is also happy; rarer still.

This is because he has James pinned to the bunk, and is stroking the other man’s prick with slow, lazy motions. James is biting back sighs, and is entirely open and yielding to Francis’s touch.

“Ross,” Francis says.

James nods. He bites his lip like a shy maid, though the heat with which he watches Francis has an entirely masculine vigour.

James knows of Francis’s previous dalliances with the man with whom he shares a Christian name. This had become rather obvious during their first bout, when James had expected a blushing virgin and had been met instead with a knowing hand and a talented mouth.

“Good Christ,” James had panted, pushing back his hair with a shaking hand. “Who taught you to do that?”

Francis, wiping his mouth, had risen and given his best approximation of an enigmatic smile.

Out of loyalty to his friend, Francis had remained close-lipped for as long as he could. He had resolutely attempted to hold back the truth, but under the duress of some rather creative persuasion, confessed. There had been some initial surprise from James, followed by admiration, succeeded immediately by jealousy.

James had sulked for days. Francis had delighted in it.

Enjoying the sight of James morose and surly at the idea of having been the _second_ James to bed Francis, he had regaled James with tales of his predecessor.

“The first time,” he’d said, grinning at the glaring James Fitzjames, “was in a canvas tent. Huddling for warmth, you know. Even through his slops, I could feel that his cock was hard. Couldn’t believe it. Believed it less when he rutted against me – like a bitch in heat – and asked me if I’d pull him off.”

This had had the desired effect, and Francis savoured watching James’s sweet eyes darken with fury and a glower crease his lovely brow.

Casting his eye lower, toward James’s groin, Francis had realized that there had been an unexpected outcome, and this was of getting James hard and leaking without being touched.

Francis had told him the rest of the story, watching gleefully as James had – reluctantly at first, eventually with eager abandon – pulled his prick from his trousers and fucked his own fist with desperate thrusts of his hips.

Some time later, with James sitting loose-limbed and spent in his chair, Francis kissed him and asked:

“Enjoy that, did you?”

Breathily: “Good God. And I wondered why you were so eager to go gallivanting into inhospitable climes. Now I know that glory is not what you desire, but-”

“Pretty men with long hair and lovely pricks?”

This seems almost to startle James. “Well, quite.”

Francis returns to the present, where he is still stroking James.

“Antarctica,” says Francis.

“Mmm.” James leans forward to kiss Francis. The moment that Francis tries to deepen the kiss, to chase James’s tongue with his own, James pulls back. “Yes. Tell me.”

Francis is tempted to play coy and ask James whether he’d like to hear of his and Ross’s various scientific discoveries, perhaps of the seal now named for his friend, or of the fascinating nuances of their magnetic observations.

But James is so pliant and warm, and Francis desires nothing more than to give him exactly what he wants. “New Year’s?”

A smile tugs at James’s proud mouth. “The ball? I didn’t know there was a story to go along with it. I’ve heard it was a splendid thing. Didn’t your James play Miss Ross?”

Tenderness slips, unbidden, into Francis’s words. " _You're_ my James. But yes, he did."

"And I heard you opened the ball with him. Difficult to imagine you dancing."

Francis lets the insult pass. "We did more than that."

James smirks, his gaze flickering down to Francis’s lips. Francis elects to kiss that smug grin off James’s face, and succeeds only in planting it more firmly.

“The ball was his idea,” he tells James. “To cheer the men. Like your Carnivale. The dress was also his idea.”

James’s eyes are wide, the rich brown eclipsed by black. “You liked seeing him like that.”

“I did.”

This seems to excite James more than Francis would have expected, as James grips Francis’s hand tightly and urges him on. “Tell me more.”

“It was maddening. Even when I led him out for the first dance I was in agony. Have you ever tried to dance with a stiff prick, James?”

A roguish grin answers Francis’s query.

“Rascal,” says Francis, twisting his wrist in a way that makes James hiss. “Of course you have.”

“Mhm.”

“Jam – Ross let me suffer a while. Always tossing his hair, making eyes at me,” Francis explains. He remembers the sight of the magnificent James Clark Ross, draped in finery, lovely enough to put the prettiest lady to shame. Ross had obviously taken some enjoyment out of making Francis squirm, tantalizing him with chaste touches as he murmured obscenities in his ear, until Francis could hardly _move_ for hiding his cockstand.

“I seem to recall doing some of that myself,” says James. His voice is breathy already.

Francis recalls several dinners in which he’d found James glowering across the table at him. Little had he known that the raw, blistering emotion with which he had been regarded had been equal parts anger and desire. “Except you looked like you wanted to break my neck. _He_ looked like he wanted to break my back.”

“And did he? Did he break your back? Did he ride you like a wild stallion? Like I do?” The simile is rather uncreative, but James is becoming desperate – as Francis wants him – and he is doing little but whining at Francis’s touch.

Francis grins. “He waited until I was nearly incapacitated, and then spirited me back to _Erebus._ To the captain’s berth.”

Francis remembers this with no small degree of vindictive pleasure; what would Sir John have thought, to know what Francis and Ross had done in what would become _his_ berth? _Erebus_ might have been Sir John’s command, but it had before been Ross’s. Now again it is as it should be, and _Erebus_ belongs to a man named James, who loves Francis.

“Had me call him ‘Miss Ross.’ And Miss Ross was a very naughty thing – quite the pert little harlot. Wanted such wicked things done to her, filthy little creature she was.”

James writhes under Francis. “Tell me. Tell me what you did to her.”

“I couldn’t let such _dirtiness_ pass unpunished, you know.”

“Oh. Oh, God.”

Francis is making himself sound far more masterful than he had been; in reality, Ross had gotten Francis up against a bulkhead and had purred and fondled and told him that he’d have to discipline Miss Ross, for she was in desperate need of a man’s firm hand.

Francis remembers seizing Ross by the hair and kissing him hard. They’d tussled and pawed at each other for some time, until Francis had seated them both, pulling Ross down.

“Put her over my knee,” he tells James. “Pulled up her skirts. She didn’t even protest, so eager she was for it. Such a fine figure she had.”

James, mewling like a kitten: “Oh – Jesus God, Francis, that’s good-”

“Spanked her white arse pink, to teach her a lesson. Not sure she learned it, to be honest. She enjoyed it. Begged me for it.”

Ross had groaned and sighed quite prettily as Francis had meted out the desired punishment. He’d bitten down on one of his lacy sleeves to gag his enthusiasm but when he could no longer hold back, words came pouring from him, nearly panicked:

“Yes, Captain Crozier, I’ve been so bad, oh yes, tell me I’m wicked-”

So deliciously strange, to hear such filth delivered by such an authoritative voice.

“But she bore it so well,” says Francis, for few men could manage to look both dignified and desirable while clothed in a gaudy gown and being spanked like an errant schoolboy.

“Oh, so could I. I could be so good for you, Francis,” whispers James. His chest heaves and Francis’s hand is slick from James’s dribbling cock. “If you would touch me so I could show you how valiantly _I_ could bear it. For you.”

“I know you could, my dear.” Gruff affection for the whining James. Francis takes a moment to mouth at James’s throat, kissing him where his pulse is hammering against his skin.

“Did you fuck her? She wanted it. Did you give her what she wanted?”

Francis grins rather wolfishly against James’s neck. “Her punishment ended, I thought she deserved a reward. I found her wet for me, and I had barely touched her.”

Francis had been astonished to find Ross already slick and open, but it explained the fifteen minutes or so for which he’d been absent from the festivities, as well as the fiendish grin he’d had when he returned.

“Do you want me to-”

“God, _yes,_ Francis. Don’t make me wait any longer,” Ross had said, the innate command slipping into his tone. Francis was powerless to refuse an order from a man he so respected and cherished.

“So I laid her down on the bunk, on her front,” says Francis. James is positively convulsing under him. His thigh chafes against Francis’s prick, which is hard, hot, and complaining at being ignored, but Francis does not for a moment considering touching himself until he has taken care of James.

He remembers pushing Ross onto his belly, and watching the man lie down with his cheek pressed to the pillow. His gleaming hair hung softly about his face, and he sighed as he wriggled into a comfortable position.

“Are you _sure,_ James-”

“For Christ’s sake,” snaps Ross, as if he is dispensing an order. “Fuck me, Francis. God, I want it, and if you make me beg, I’m like to kill you. Grease up that thick cock of yours and fuck me with it.”

Obscenity, given as a command. Delicious and resistless. What was there for Francis but to obey? Ross was his friend; more importantly, his commander. He would deny him nothing. Oiled and ready, he had straddled Ross’s pinkened backside, spread him open, and slowly pressed himself inside.

“So wet,” he tells James. James cries out. He is close to the edge and so Francis momentarily slows his pace to draw out the moment. “Tight, and hot. The sound she made was – oh, I can’t describe it.”

“Do it for me, do it for me _please,_ ” whispers James.

Francis remembers hearing Ross’s low, filthy moan, and how it had taken every ounce of his self-control not to grab Ross by the hair and fuck him right through the bunk. He presses himself close to James and into his ear gives his best approximation of Ross’s moan.

James jolts as if struck and Francis has to stop working him, for he senses that if he touches him at all it will push James over the edge. For a moment, James shudders and groans, before giving a sigh.

“Tell me. Tell me more.”

There is little else to tell – both Francis and Ross had been shamefully prick-forward, slightly drunk, and very eager, and the moment had been far shorter than Francis would have liked. But there ought to be enough of a story for James, who is currently writhing like a cobra before a charmer, and surely will not last much longer.

“Couldn’t keep her still,” says Francis. The moment Francis had begun to move – intent on being gentle, which seemed to incense Ross – the other man had begun to squirm. “Or quiet. Seemed determined to let the whole ship know that she was being _thoroughly_ debauched.”

Francis had had to clap a hand over Ross’s mouth when his moans had begun to border on the ridiculous. Ross had shaken this off with a snarl.

James moans. “Good Christ, I want to. I want to _scream,_ Francis. I want to scream for you.”

Francis can feel his own furious blush. He is hard as a poker and certain James can feel it. The combination of the recollection of the glorious James Clark Ross – the stuff of which has formed (though Francis will never admit it) the basis of more than one lurid picture Francis has used to entertain himself – and the physical reality the magnificent James Fitzjames, writhing in his arms, has Francis hotter than a stoked brazier.

And _God,_ Francis wishes James _would_ scream for him. He wishes for nothing more than an empty house in a warm place, where he may kiss and caress James until the man is very nearly howling with want.

“He did,” he tells James. At this point, Ross was no longer playing at femininity. He had very nearly shrieked when Francis had pulled his hips up and off the bunk, so that Francis could play with his prick. “Especially when I touched him there, between the legs, as I am doing to you.”

“God, yes, that’s – oh, please don’t stop, Francis, please never stop-”

James is as far gone as Ross was, his hips bucking up into Francis’s grip. Francis has to press him down into the bunk, soothing him with a kiss. Ross was gripping the mattress in both hands, bringing his body back to meet Francis’s every thrust and treating Francis to an obscene soliloquy, as loudly as he dared, with a man’s full timbre.

“Yes, _Christ,_ Francis, fuck me, fuck me _just like that,_ oh, God damn you, that’s – that’s-”

Francis growls this into James’s ear, earning him a delicious shudder. James’s hand is pressed into Francis’s chest, his nails digging into the skin. This will bruise. Francis will attempt to explain it away to Jopson, but given that the latter is in charge of his laundry, doubts that any excuse he gives will be believed.

James barely manages a sentence. “And what did you say to him?”

And so Francis repeats the praise he gave to the deserving James Ross, but now to a James even more worthy of being worshipped:

“You feel so good. So good. Such a good boy you are. So pretty.”

At this, Ross had spent with a yelp all over Francis’s hand. Francis had to support the near-fainting Ross as with all his strength he had driven into him and finally come. This done, they had slumped in a heap across the bunk, Francis covering Ross’s body with his own.

“Good?” Francis asked.

Ross had laughed, low in his throat. “I envy the woman who will eventually be Mrs. Crozier.”

There is no Mrs. Crozier, but there is James Fitzjames, and that is more than enough.

Now, James’s entire body goes rigid, as if with a seizure, and his eyes roll back in his head. A soft, keening moan escapes him as he comes until both are messy with it. Francis does not slow his pace until James collapses.

Then he releases him in favour of covering him with kisses; spangling them over his lean chest, adoring his white throat, and then finally pressing one chaste kiss to his forehead. He murmurs as he does it, all heated snippets of praise.

James, meanwhile, is limp and panting, obviously unable to move. When James is in danger of catching his breath, Francis kisses him hard, until he is gasping for air once more. This earns him but the weakest of protestations.

As he did for Ross, Francis pulls the bedcovers over the two of them and lays across James’s body, to warm him.

“Aren’t you going to-” begins James, as he has obviously felt against his hip the firm press of Francis’s hard cock.

“Hush. Can’t you be silent for five minutes, Fitzjames?”

“Only if pressed by dire consequence, Fran- mhm.” He breaks off because Francis has sucked that clever tongue into his mouth to stop its wagging.

Francis has only a few moments of blessed silence before he is told something that makes it nearly impossible to keep his hand away from his cock.

“Did you know I thought of appearing at Carnivale as Miss Fitzjames?”

Francis snorts. Seeing James as Britannia, resplendent in his helm and regal in a red sash, had been maddening enough. “It’s just as well you didn’t. If I’d seen you like that, I’d have had you right there, with your dress around your ears, in front of all the men.”

A sharp inhale from James. Francis doesn’t need to look to know that James’s lips are parted, and that he wets them with his tongue.

“Would you have liked that?”

James hums an affirmative.

Francis hides a wicked grin against James’s hair. “You would? What a terrible breach of discipline for your men to see their commander debauched.”

“Perhaps it would teach them what sort of obedient service _our_ commander deserves.”

At this, James rises, gently conveying Francis onto his back. As he settles himself between Francis’s thighs, he casts a flirtatious gaze his way.

“Do you know what service you are due, Captain Crozier?”

Francis doubts he will be able to speak, so he shakes his head.

James’s smile is hypnotic as with dark lashes hooding his eyes, he bends his head and takes Francis in his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing Francis as blushing and inexperienced, but shocking James with Francis’s sexual history is great, too. Basically I imagined that the first time they fucked James was like “ok so here’s what you’ve got to do-” and Francis was like “oh, I know what to do” and then fucked James through the mattress.
> 
> Also, there’s some punctuation in here that is bordering on the obscene. Dashes AND parentheses AND commas in the same sentence? Dreadful. Horrendous. I ought to be hunted for sport.


End file.
